


You're Fired!

by JustinTimberlake



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, The Apprentice (UK)! Au, also combeferre/enjolras bromance, just lots of bromance, major courf/marius bromance, rated for later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:31:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustinTimberlake/pseuds/JustinTimberlake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“From all corners of France, hundreds of budding entrepreneurs have applied for the chance of a lifetime. After months of sifting and careful selection, thousands of applicants have been whittled down to twelve of the best business brains in the country. They are all desperate to win the job worth millions of euro, which can be given to them only by the hard-nosed billionaire businessman, Javert. The heat is on as all twelve candidates fight to be Lord Javert’s apprentice.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“From all corners of France, hundreds of budding entrepreneurs have applied for the chance of a lifetime. After months of sifting and careful selection, thousands of applicants have been whittled down to twelve of the best business brains in the country. They are all desperate to win the job worth millions of euro, which can be given to them only by the hard-nosed billionaire businessman, Javert. The heat is on as all twelve candidates fight to be Lord Javert’s apprentice.”_

~*~

Grantaire didn’t know how he’d ended up as a serious candidate in the competition. In fact, he’d applied as a complete joke. He and his friend from his neighbourhood, Montparnasse, had been out drinking all day when a TV advertisement aired showcasing Lord Javert's 'oppurtunity of a lifetime,' and Grantaire had mentioned that he’d love to give it a go, if only to laugh at all the self-righteous assholes who went on the show. Montparnasse had encouraged him to apply, and they both laughed as they filled out their applications, cramming them purposely with clichés: “I’m Grantaire, and I am the full package,” “Javert, you are my inspiration in everything that I do,” and his personal favourite, “I’m not a one trick pony, I’m a field of ponies.” 

He guessed it might be sort of like The X Factor, with the whole comedy value being more important that actual talent aspect, that is. But then, Lord Javert didn’t seem like the most comedic fellow in the world. When the letter had came through his door, he’d been flabbergasted at the formal invitation to ring a Miss. Fauchelevent about his application to ‘The Apprentice.’ If he was being honest, he thought he was about to be berated for his lack of seriousness, so when she began talking about locations, packing, transport and terms and conditions, he was shocked beyond belief, hardly managing to take in her instructions. 

He’d forgotten at least half of them by the next day, but it seemed Miss. Fauchelevent ( _“Please, call me Cosette!”_ ) had anticipated this, as she called him again the next day under the guise of a ‘standard reminder.’ He was certain that no one else would have needed it. In fact, he was pretty sure that everyone else would probably be deadly serious about the whole thing. He imagined that they would have all poured themselves a glass of champagne of whatever the fuck it is those posh people drink, and toasted to the occasion. Not Grantaire. He’d celebrated with a can of cheap lager, and one cigarette, though he was supposed to be quitting.

Grantaire knew he had to look smart today, that was a given. Unfortunately, he didn’t own that many smart clothes, and he didn’t really have the money to go out and buy a whole new wardrobe. Well, technically he did, but that would mean he’d have to speak to his parents. He pressed on, determined that he could find at least a few wearable outfits, even though a small part of him was screaming at himself to just give it up already. 

After half an hour of sifting through his collection on threadbare jeans and t-shirts that smelled faintly of sick, he was forced to give up. Grantaire sighed in defeat and pulled out his phone. 

The dialling tone barely even sounded before his mother greeted him.

“Grantaire! How good of you to finally get in touch,” she began, in a snotty voice that Grantaire had tried his best to forget. He shook his head at himself, took a deep breath and tried to relax. He should at least try to play nice, since he was basically asking her for an all-expenses paid shopping spree.

“Hello, mother. I have some news,” he coughed. 

“Oh gosh,” his mother began, in a disappointed tone. “I should’ve known that this would happen sooner or later.” She sighed, and while she paused, Grantaire furrowed his brow in confusion. “So, is it going to be an abortion? Or are you actually thinking of _raising_ a child?” She laughed. “I should hope not, dear. You can barely take care of yourself. You know Grantaire, you’re so irresponsible, it’s quite unbelievable.” She sighed before she continued in an exasperated tone. “I’m not sure why you’re ringing to tell me, Grantaire. I hope you’re not expecting us to help you in your latest foolish endeavour.” 

Grantaire took another deep breath and counted to ten, clenching his fists uselessly by his sides. He tried to reply in a measured tone.

“No, mother. No one is pregnant. I’ve been selected for The Apprentice.” Both parties were silent for a couple of beats, before his mother began laughing uncertainly. He sighed. “I’m not joking. This is serious.” He tried to say it lightly, but he suspected a hint of irritation bled into his voice anyway. Not that it mattered. 

His mother was silent again for at least a minute before he heard quiet gasping noises at the other end of the phone.

“Mother?” He asked tentatively, and at the sound of his voice she began positively sobbing down the phone.

“Finally,” she cried, “You’ve made us proud!”

He scowled, mouth setting into a tight line as he counted to ten silently and regulated his breathing.  
“Yeah, thanks,” he muttered, but she interrupted him with a light wail.

“Oh but dear, you’re so…” It seemed as if she didn’t want to call her son ‘scruffy’ outright, but the muffled sigh spoke volumes. She continued with a new fervour in her voice. “Darling, we need to go on a shopping spree immediately!” 

Grantaire smirked. Now that was what he was looking for.

~*~

The suits were bloody awful. Well, that wasn’t completely true, he mused. They certainly were very expensive, and the cut of them was nice. Truth be told, he probably wouldn’t mind wearing the dinner jacket and trousers alone with the tie and shirt, but the waistcoat and cufflinks had made him feel like he was the groom at a wedding. His mother had insisted on the full ensemble, proclaiming that Javert would only accept the most well-dressed of candidates. 

Grantaire had put up and shut up and decided to let her blow thousands of euros on him if that’s what she wanted to do, especially as she didn’t care enough to help with his rent or living. On the bright side, maybe he could sell the suits when he was no longer in need of them. It’s not like he expected to last very long in the competition. 

One of the only benefits, as Montparnasse had said in a moment of unprecedented wisdom, was that he might be able to use the show to boost awareness for his art work, considering the fact that it was broadcast all over France. Surely someone would recognise his skill out of the millions of viewers that tuned in. He’d just secretly have to get his art on camera.

He folded the last dress shirt up and shoved his pyjamas in the side pocket of his suitcase, along with his toothbrush and hair products. He honestly didn’t have a clue what he was doing. Grantaire laughed a little hysterically, running his hand through a mess of tangled curls that no amount of pleading and pushing from his mother would force him to cut. If Javert didn’t like his hair then he could damn well fire him. Grantaire didn’t really give a shit. 

He glanced at himself in the mirror and snorted, pulling out his phone to take a picture. He hardly even recognised himself. His hair was the only ‘scruffy’ thing about him at the moment, and even that was much better than usual. He had actually combed it and even more surprisingly, washed it, so it was a lot more tame than usual. He’d shaved the day before, so his face was smooth and his sideburns considerably cut back. For the first time in years, he could almost pass for respectable, even in the eyes of his mother. 

His dinner jacket fitted him snugly, but still managed to hang off his frame enough to give a sense of casualness, and he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, forgoing the tie completely. After taking a picture of himself with a goofy expression to send to Montparnasse and his friends from the bar later, he took another minute to marvel at his transformation in the mirror before his phone buzzed in his palm. It was a text from an unknown number.

 _Your taxi is waiting outside the door._  
 _Make sure you have everything – CHECK PROPERLY & THOROUGHLY! There’s no need to panic and rush, the driver will wait._  
 _Remember – all of your forms are essential, and clothes are probably advisable too._  
 _Have a safe trip and I’ll see you when you get in!_  
 _\- Cosette_  
  
Steeling himself, he did a quick-but-frenzied frantic mental check list. He was sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, but he knew himself too well to fully believe that. It only took him a second more of thinking before he was smacking himself on the forehead.

Grantaire hurried to his bedroom to retrieve his passport from on top of his drawer, cursing himself all the way. He’d had to renew it as soon as he found out about The Apprentice. Apparently having out-of-date ID wasn’t good enough. Cosette had also hinted that they might need passports to get out of the country for a task, but because this part had been spoken in whispers, he guessed that it was supposed to be confidential, and resolved to keep his mouth shut. Cosette seemed cool enough, and he didn't want her getting in trouble because of him. 

He snatched his passport up, then checked to see if it was all in order one last time, and rifling through his bag to make sure he had his wallet and all of the necessary documents. When he was sure that he was ready, Grantaire took a deep breath and fumbled with his keys as he made his way to the door.

Grantaire stepped out of his flat with an almost pained grimace. For all his talk about not caring, he was still, and quite understandably, nervous about the prospect of actually being on TV, never mind meeting the formidable Javert in person. He tried to shrug it off as he climbed into the posh taxicab, but he was making excuses about why he had been late before he had even shut the door. His apology was cut off by an imperious wave from the white-haired driver, though.

“It isn't a problem, my good man. I had an imbecile last year that forgot to bring her passport! We had to turn around and get it after we’d already driven for half an hour. Of course, I didn’t let Javert know.”

He winked conspiratorially at Grantaire, who shifted guiltily in his seat, thinking of the last minute rush for his passport. “Wow, that’s so stupid of her,” he mumbled unenthusiastically, and the driver nodded in agreement.

“If Javert had found out, she probably wouldn’t have even got in the building!” The driver chortled cheerfully.

Grantaire gulped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos and things are very much appreciated :-)  
> P.s massive thank you to [izzie](archiveofourown.org/users/Orestes/) for being the best beta (and friend) ever!!!


	2. Chapter 2

The streets of Paris passed in a blur. Grantaire had lost the nauseous feeling after around twenty minutes of sitting in traffic, and he was now reclined in his seat, resting his head against the window. He was still nervous though, as was evident by the way his fingers kept tapping incessantly against his leg. It didn’t make any noise, fortunately, so it wouldn’t annoy the driver. Not that he’d have heard it anyway, as the driver had long since turned the radio up to full blast to enjoy some sort of classical bullshit that was so goddamn high culture that it made Grantaire’s ears bleed. 

The music was playing so loud it was giving Grantaire a headache, and he thanked heavens that he hadn’t indulged in Montparnasse’s offer for a “crazy send-off” the day before. It was drinking that had landed him in this mess in the first place, and Grantaire found himself wondering yet again just exactly what he’d gotten himself into by making a passing joke through the haze of whiskey and vodka. He almost vowed never to drink again, but snorted out loud. It was fair to say that would never _ever_ happen.

The driver was too busy swaying to the screeching violins that were echoing around the car to notice Grantaire laughing to himself, and Grantaire wished fervently that he had said “yes, I do mind,” when asked if it was okay to put the radio on. It was too late now, he thought with a grimace, and closed his eyes. He tried his best not to think too much about the day ahead of him that he’d have to get through alcohol free.

~*~

“Monsieur Grantaire,” The driver called, and Grantaire opened his eyes blearily. He groaned when he realised that he must have drifted off on the way. “We’re here.”

Grantaire waited until his eyes had adjusted, then peered out of the window. He let out a low whistle.

“Nice,” he muttered.

On the street there only stood a handful of buildings, but they were all massive. He realised with a start that it was for privacy and secrecy, and he half-heartedly thought it was a bit like being a celebrity. Grantaire marvelled at the sheer size of the house to his left, which actually he really hoped wasn't a private home – it could house at least forty people. 

As he got out of the car, the driver gestured to the building in front of him, which he deduced was the house he'd be sharing with the other candidates. It was a pristine white mansion, and although it wasn't as inexcusably large as the one he'd been gaping at seconds ago, it was still a sight to behold. The oak trees dotting the groomed streets were swaying lightly in the breeze in the manner than only happened in the peaceful moments in a romance film, and for the first time, Grantaire allowed a small smile to pass his lips at the thought of staying here for the foreseeable future. It was much better than his hovel back at home, at least.

His driver (and that was all he could call him, since he'd forgotten his ridiculously long name as soon as the man had uttered it) dropped Grantaire's suitcase down by his feet.

“Will that be all, Sir?”

Grantaire looked at him with an eyebrow raised. Of course that was all, he thought. It's not as if he had a secret suitcase hidden underneath the seat. 

His hand delved into his pocket, remembering the manners his parents had tried to drill into him at an early age, and he pulled out a ten euro note to give him as a tip. “That's all I have. Thank you, though.”

He smiled at him, and the driver bowed in return, hurrying back to the driver’s side of the car. He stopped just before he opened the door.

“It was my pleasure! Good luck, Monsieur!”

The unspoken “you'll need it” was clear and it seemed to echo in the air as the taxi car drove away, leaving Grantaire standing stupidly in the middle of the pavement. He braced himself for all possibilities of what he'd find in the house, whether it be some pretentious pricks (very likely), a really hot guy (unlikely), or even Lord Javert himself. He let out a whoosh of air as he exhaled steadily, and then began to make his way over to the door with determination in his step. 

He debated for a second whether to knock or not, wondering what would be the polite thing to do, then chuckled at himself. In that moment, he made the decision to stop trying to remember his manners and control his actions so much. He decided that he'd just be himself – though obviously he would tone it down just a little, no matter what, and reached out to just try the door handle. 

The door swung open easily, and there came a triumphant “Whoop!” from inside.

He was met by a blur of a bright red sweater vest and black curls hurtling down the bottom step and throwing an arm around him.

“Here for The Apprentice?” the man asked him when he had let a shocked Grantaire go, with a wide grin firmly in place. Grantaire relaxed immediately, and the grin that came back was natural and easy.

“Yeah. Don't have a clue how, though,” he laughed, and the man laughed loudly back.

“I don't think any of us do!” he grabbed Grantaire's arm and began to lead him through the marble hallway. Grantaire tried not to gape at the surroundings, but his appreciation must have been evident. “It's amazing, isn't it? I feel like goddamn royalty or something. Oh, my name's Courfeyrac, by the way.”

“Grantaire,” he smiled, and paused for a moment to set his suitcase down with the others that were clumped together at the bottom of the stairwell. “How many others are here?”

“Well, there's only the five of us at the moment. Well, six now.” 

He threw the door open, and Grantaire peeked in. The single room was bigger than his entire apartment, and was furnished lavishly. Covering almost two of the walls was a long plush red sofa that snaked round the back corner of the room, and facing it was a selection of beanbags and armchairs. More interestingly, perhaps, was the bar that stood on the far side of the room. Probably no real alcohol, though, he thought dejectedly.

A girl with long dark hair stood up when he walked in. She put a hand on her hip and glared at Courfeyrac accusingly. 

“You didn't tell us someone else was here, Courfeyrac!” 

Courfeyrac didn’t shy away from her glare, simply held his arms out and rushed forward to encase her in a bear hug. She shoved him from her roughly.

“You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met,” she grunted, pushing past him to stand in front of Grantaire.

She seemed quite violent to someone she had only just met, but Courfeyrac didn't look like he minded as he pretended to wipe his eyes with false tears. Grantaire decided that he liked her. 

He scanned the rest of the room quickly and saw a bespectacled man with light brown hair smiling benevolently at him, perched on a white, leather stool. Cross-legged on one of the bean bags sat a lithe little man with a flowery waistcoat on. It would have looked quite formal, but he had his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his shirt untucked. The man waved at him enthusiastically. On the red sofa in the corner sat another man with the full suit ensemble on, who sent him a small, quite nervous smile. He kept twitching in his seat, fiddling with the cufflinks that clunked on his wrists. 

“I'm Eponine,” the girl said, sticking a hand out for him to shake brusquely. The way she positively shoved the hand in his face suggested she wasn't one for formalities. She scored another 100 points in Grantaire's book as he observed her stony face in amusement.

“Grantaire,” he replied, smirking. “We don't have to do that formal bullshit though, right?” 

She grinned brilliantly, and gave him a light, amiable punch to the arm.

“I like this one,” she took a step back with a light laugh as he flicked her arm in return. He jostled past her and looked at the other two men. Grantaire waved somewhat awkwardly, and followed Eponine to the other side of the red sofa. 

“So you don't like us?” Courfeyrac yelled indignantly from his spot at the door, and Eponine sweetly smiled at him, without offering him a reply. Courfeyrac huffed and pretended to cry again. The nervous boy from the other side of the sofa looked up in concern. 

“So aren't you gonna introduce yourself, Grantaire?” Courfeyrac clapped him on the back with a smirk before moving past him. Grantaire took a seat.

“Well, I'm Grantaire,” he paused. “I'm an artist, I guess, and I applied for this as a joke,” He shrugged, and Courfeyrac laughed delightedly. Eponine nudged her arm against his companionably, laughing along. The lithe boy on the beanbag spoke up.

“I'm Jehan,” he smiled so brightly that Grantaire couldn't help but smile back as Jehan continued. “I applied because I thought it would be fun.” 

Courfeyrac cheered. The man with the glasses leant forward. “My name is Combeferre,” he began in a voice that Grantaire immediately defined as upper-class, but the guy didn't seem too pretentious or anything – yet. “I applied because I hate my job.”

Grantaire raised an imaginary glass, and Courfeyrac mimicked him, both cheering raucously. 

“What was your job?” Jehan inquired, tilting his head back so he could see Combeferre upside down.

Combeferre glanced between Courfeyrac and Grantaire ruefully.

“I was an accountant.”

He didn't look at all surprised by the “boo's” that resounded through the room. 

“I'm Courfeyrac,” Courfeyrac stated with a proud smile, and paused for at least thirty seconds purely for dramatic effect. “And I shall win The Apprentice.” At least three people in the room rolled their eyes, and Eponine threw a cushion at him. Courfeyrac shrugged, faux-modestly. “What can I say,” he sighed, with a put-upon smile. “I'm too fantastic for my own good.”

“You are the most annoying person in the world,” Eponine growled, reaching behind Grantaire for his cushion, waving it threateningly in Courfeyrac's direction.

“Alright, alright!” Courfeyrac said quickly with a short laugh. “I will give it my all though,”

The group didn't know if he was being serious, and exchanged uncertain looks.

“In fact, I will give it 150 per-”

The collective groan drowned him out, and when Grantaire hummed an agreement about how annoying Courfeyrac was, Eponine stuck her elbow in Grantaire's side, a little too roughly for his delicate pain threshold. 

“Ow,” he moaned, but he was only met with a satisfied smirk.

“You think you've got it bad, I've been stuck with this idiot for an hour now.”

It was clear she didn't really mean it. Courfeyrac was one of those people that was hugely annoying, but you couldn't help but love him as soon as you got used to him. Still, she gave him an exasperated look, and pointed to Courfeyrac, who was looking around him, pretending to look for who she was talking about.

“What, me?” he said innocently.

At her pointed look, he gripped his heart with a pained expression.

“I've only been here for three hours, and already I'm being bullied. I want out!”

Grantaire quirked his lips at him.

“You got here three hours ago? Wow, you're an eager beaver,” he said good-naturedly, reclining in his seat. Eponine snorted from beside him, and Courfeyrac made a face at Grantaire as he made his way over to the red sofa. Grantaire was pleasantly surprised by the lack of sensibleness that he had so far witnessed.

“I got here last night,” a quiet voice sounded from the other side of the sofa. Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him, biting his lip to stop his laughter. The boy was so shy, Grantaire had inadvertently begun to treat him like a frightened animal. “I didn't mean to though,” The man wailed, making Eponine titter under her breath. “I told Cosette I could make my own way down,” he paused, and then hung his head in shame. “I was wrong.”

Courfeyrac had taken a seat next to the unnamed man, and was currently putting into play the arm stretch-turned light hug move, but the man beside him didn't seem to notice, too annoyed at himself to even think about the arm making its way to his shoulder. Grantaire glanced at Eponine, who was rolling her eyes with a knowing smirk that had an edge of nastiness. 

Grantaire laughed inwardly at the reaction Courfeyrac must have got when he had tried to flirt with Eponine, and looked back to see Jehan was on the verge of laughter too, though he looked considerably more kind about it. Courfeyrac obviously got around.

“This is Marius,” Courfeyrac said with a fond, if teasing smile, squeezing Marius's shoulder. “He's an idiot.”

Marius blushed.

 

~*~

 

Three hours later, Grantaire had unpacked and was immensely pleased with himself that he'd thought to buy so many casual clothes on his shopping spree as well as suits. Now he had a mountain of jumpers filling up the wardrobe that he'd picked for himself. There were four wardrobes in the room, and only four beds, so Grantaire felt perfectly justified in spreading his clothes out thinly across all the drawers inside his own personal wardrobe. Jehan, Courfeyrac and Marius were to share the room with him, which he was partly grateful for, since he liked them, although a small part of him wondered how he'd ever go to sleep between Courfeyrac rambling away to himself or flirting in the corner of the room, and Jehan's snoring. He had only confessed to this particular trait after they had agreed to share the room with him.

Two more people had arrived in the last hour. The first was a bald man that tripped over two suitcases upon his entry and banged his head on something. He told them he was called Bossuet. Well, when they'd finished laughing at him, of course. The other man had arrived nearly straight after him, entering just when everyone had calmed down.

Eponine had slyly warned him to “watch out for the suitcases,” causing everyone (including Bossuet, who had simply stood up again with a wide grin after his fall), to burst into laughter once more. Well, everyone except for Marius, who only gave a couple short bursts of laughter before helping Combeferre drag an almost breathless, hyperventilating Courfeyrac into the other room. Courfeyrac's face were wet from tears, and his laugh was infectious, meaning that at least five minutes passed before everyone as totally calm again.

The new addition was called Joly, and he immediately searched the kitchen cupboards so he could locate the first aid kit 'for future reference.' 

It would have been perfect material for Eponine or Grantaire to tease him about, but at Grantaire's flippant comment about how he didn't plan on cutting himself open, Joly had met his eyes with a serious stare.

“I should hope not,” he stated, and then bit his lip worriedly. “We don't have the materials to handle that.”

Eponine had excused herself at that comment with a giggle she tried to cover up with a cough, and left the room to unpack. Of course, her room was just as big as theirs was, and Courfeyrac had wailed about how unfair it was until Combeferre had suggested that more girls were probably on their way. Eponine looked disappointed at that, and Grantaire heard her mutter “I hope not, I don’t want to share a room,” as she made her way upstairs.

~*~

It was early evening by the time anyone else arrived. Grantaire and Eponine had been exploring after unpacking, and had found a dining room on the floor below, as well as an extra sitting room, equipped with beanbags and games consoles. More importantly, they had found the cellar and the stash of wine. Looking at each other with excited grins, they began to sift through the collection. They wasted at least half an hour poring over different bottles of wine, though they didn't realise until Joly and Bossuet peered round the door with a dark haired girl that must have recently arrived.

Eponine's smile was a little forced at first when the girl introduced herself as Musichetta, but as soon as Musichetta produced a corkscrew from her back pocket, Eponine visibly warmed to her, even more so when Musichetta handed the bottle round to Eponine first, before proceeding to quickly open another bottle and offer it around the group. Grantaire liked her immensely, and that he found quite surprising; he genuinely liked everyone he had met so far, and after he was expecting them to be bourgeoisie scum and to hate them all, it was a pleasant surprise. Combeferre seemed the 'poshest' out of the lot so far, but he was so incredibly nice it almost made Grantaire uncomfortable. Almost.

The five of them shared the two bottles between themselves, sitting on the floor with their legs crossed and backs to the wall, introducing themselves to one another. Bossuet’s description of himself was simply 'unlucky,' which had earned a teasing comment from Joly that at least it was one less person he had to worry about beating him to the final, and Joly had told them that he had an avid interest in anything to do with health and the medical world. Suddenly, his insistence upon finding the first aid kit made sense. Grantaire made the same introduction as he had done earlier, letting them know he applied as a joke with a flippant air, knowing it drew some laughter last time. Eponine, however, betrayed him.

“You can't make the same joke twice, Grantaire,” she grinned wickedly, elbowing him in the same spot as earlier. He narrowed his eyes at her.

“If you elbow me one more time, I swear...”

She laughed out loud then and spoke in a teasing tone.

“What? Come on, tough guy. Tell me.” 

Grantaire was mildly disappointed when the other three joined in the laughter and he scowled mock-seriously. He crossed his arms, much like a child in a temper tantrum. It seemed his tough guy act was a definite 'no' then.

“Whatever,” he muttered, poking Eponine's side viciously and sticking his tongue out, only causing more laughter around him. After a few seconds, he joined in. The excitement of being in the competition, coupled with the alcohol, was probably influencing them all to be in a jovial mood, and there was a cheerful atmosphere in the house. 

When they finished off the second bottle, Joly suggested they go back upstairs and let everyone else know about the cellar. They all agreed, standing up and letting the experts Musichetta and Grantaire select the wine. Of course, Grantaire was only considered an expert because he'd simply drank a lot of it, whereas Musichetta actually was an expert, seven years of bar service giving her the title.

They found out, much to Eponine's chagrin, (she would have liked to see the new arrivals walking through the door, since the only two she'd seen so far actually step through the threshold were Joly and Bossuet) that two more people had arrived in their absence. 

A muscly man that made Marius twitch more than usual introduced himself as Bahorel, and if the fact that he discovered a bottle of vodka in the bar and immediately did a straight shot of it didn't warm Grantaire to him, the iPod dock he'd brought with him and plugged in as soon as he walked in did. 

The other was a skinny thing, at complete odds with Bahorel, but the two seemed to get along well enough and he lingered at Bahorel's side. This was Feuilly, and Grantaire was forever indebted to him, since he was the one who suggested cocktails upon finding the whole bar was fully stocked.

Courfeyrac, Grantaire and Bahorel all tried to out-do each other making the cocktails. They all tasted absolutely disgusting, filled with at least half a glass of vodka and topped with whiskey with only a dash of lemonade. The taste was far too strong, though Bahorel and Grantaire tried to grin and bear it, pretending it didn't affect them. Courfeyrac made a disgusted face each time, but still tried to coerce Marius into trying them, until Musichetta shooed them away, beckoning Eponine closer to her.

“Step away boys,” she grinned. “Me and Eponine are gonna make some _actual_ cocktails.” 

Courfeyrac gave a sarcastic “ooooh, get her!” before he was assured by Joly that Musichetta would actually make a better cocktail than the lethal trash they'd been producing, which Bossuet backed up with the knowledge that Musichetta was legitimately trained in bar tending. Satisfied, Courfeyrac turned his attentions to Jehan and started fiddling with his hair, braiding a section of it. Grantaire caught Jehan's eye, and Jehan sent him an amused glance.

Eponine nodded enthusiastically as she crossed the room to Musichetta’s side, and listened intently as Musichetta gave her a crash course in the flavours that went well together, and the right kind of amounts to put in to ensure a good tasting drink (giving a pointed look towards the three men as she made this comment,) while still getting suitably drunk from it. 

When the girls had prepared an interesting looking bright purple drink - “you'll never know,” Eponine had said smugly when someone enquired how it was purple – everyone took a glass with excitement they should probably be embarrassed about, while Courfeyrac pushed his way in between Marius and Jehan, grinning at them both innocently. He almost knocked their drinks over in his desperation to make it to the centre of the circle.

“Nobody drink yet!” he yelled, narrowing his eyes at Eponine accusingly. She paused reluctantly with her glass halfway to her mouth. “I'd like to make a toast.”

Grantaire, Bahorel, Joly and Bousset let out a collective groan. It was obviously the response Courfeyrac wanted as he preened under their attention, and sent them a smug grin.

“To meeting new friends and engaging in new experiences!”

“You're so fucking cheesy, Courfeyrac,” Eponine voiced, but her eyes sparkled with mirth. Grantaire grunted in agreement, and, not for the first time, he acknowledged the possibility that he actually was going to make some friends and have fun in this whole experience.

“To The Apprentice!” Musichetta spoke up, raising her glass.

“To Javert!” Bahorel roared with a note of sarcasm that didn't go undetected by anyone, making everyone cheer.

“To giving one hundred and ten percent!” Grantaire finished, and all of them cheered along. 

“One hundred and ten percent!” 

Everybody chorused in unison, and knocked their drinks back with a satisfied sigh.

Musichetta and Eponine shrugged off their praises with a smile, and if Eponine's was slightly more smug and proud of herself, no one said anything. Grantaire laughed lightly, though, when she explained for the second time how Musichetta had told her she was a 'real natural.' Eponine clearly hadn't noticed that he was mocking her, since he didn't feel a sharp jabbing pain in his rib from her elbow. He probably should feel more ashamed for being so relieved, but that girl really meant business when she elbowed someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated :-)  
> big thank you as ever to [izzie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Orestes) for being awesome!  
> p.s if you have any questions about the fic or the apprentice set up feel free to ask!!!


	3. Chapter 3

The shrill ringing of the telephone felt like a personal form of torture. Grantaire opened his eyes blearily and glanced around the room. Courfeyrac was fast asleep, saliva dribbling out of his open mouth, and Marius was cocooned in his blankets so Grantaire couldn't even see him. He didn't have to look to know Jehan was still happily asleep, because although snores were muffled, they were still so loud that Grantaire felt like the floor should be shaking. He thought Jehan had been exaggerating when he said he was a monstrous snorer, but not he was forced to admit that it was true. So true that Musichetta and Eponine in the next room could probably hear it too, he thought. 

When the phone continued trilling for a further five rings and it seemed no one else was going to get it, Grantaire groaned and peered under the blanket to check he was in a decent state of dress. He didn't have a t-shirt on, but he did have a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms on, so he rolled out of bed and made his way out of the room. Out of spite, he made sure to close the door with a loud slam behind him. He was a horrible bastard, he thought with a proud smile, and started down the stairs as carefully as he could with his eyes half open. He tried to be as fast as he could, because if the phone stopped before he got there after he had made all this effort to actually get out of bed, he would never forgive himself. 

Grantaire got down to the second last step when the phone stopped ringing. He slapped a hand on his forehead and cursed, but stopped when he heard a smooth voice speak up from around the corner, where the phone was.

“Hi,” the voice answered, and Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows as he tried to identify it. It was definitely male, but it wasn't Courfeyrac or Combeferre. It was too smooth sounding to be Bahorel, and too clipped to be Jehan. It was too loud to be Marius, and had a different inflection to Bousset's, Feuilly's and Joly's. It was probably most similar to Combeferre, but there was something different about it. 

“Yes, that's fine. An hour?” The voice paused. “Got it. I'll go and give everyone a wake up call. No, thank you, Cosette. Goodbye. You too, and thanks.” 

Grantaire hadn't moved from his position mid-step on the second stair, and so when the source of the voice reached the foot of the stairs, the man stepped back in mild surprise. 

The man was gorgeous. He had a perfectly chiselled jaw, and Grantaire thought idly about poems Jehan could write about it (in a drunken haze last night, Jehan had admitted he wrote poems almost every day, and Courfeyrac had instantly demanded he write one about him. Jehan had refused, but Grantaire had noticed him scribbling away on a napkin in the corner of the room later on, glancing up at Courfeyrac thoughtfully after every couple of words.) His hair was not blonde, it was golden, and the loose curls flowed perfectly around his face. But the most important thing – he wasn't wearing a shirt, just some loose grey jogging bottoms. His skin was golden brown, and Grantaire had to remind himself that it wasn't polite to stare, forcing his eyes back to the man's face.

In pure shock, Grantaire stayed frozen in place even as the man said something that Grantaire didn't hear. He vaguely wondered if he was still asleep, until he saw the man's handsome features scrunch up with a hint of irritation. He tried to focus, not wanting the man to be mad at him for some inexplicable reason, and blinked a few times.

“Uh, sorry. I didn't catch that – who, who are you?” he asked, rubbing his eyes once more and tried smiling. Then he felt a chill around his midriff and remembered he didn't have a shirt on either. Suddenly he felt very self-conscious. He dropped his arms to his chest to cover it, wrapping them around himself as casually as he could.

“I'm Enjolras,” the man said tolerantly, with a pleasant enough expression. “I arrived at about midnight last night. You were all asleep.” He spoke to Grantaire as if he were a particularly slow child, though it was clear enough that his patience wasn't all too genuine. Still, he stuck his hand out for Grantaire to shake. “And you are?”

“I'm Grantaire,” he said quickly, accepting the handshake. He briefly thought about how he and Eponine laughed at handshaking and he refused to shake Joly's earlier, because it 'was against everything he believed in.' But when it was a guy like this, Grantaire decided to relax his beliefs considerably. 

It took Grantaire a few moments before he absently noted that he was staring down at their joined palms, and that he hadn't let go of Enjolras's hand. He looked up again at Enjolras, who was looking at him weirdly.

“Right,” Enjolras coughed. “Well, it’s been nice to meet you and everything.” He paused, and looked past Grantaire up the stairs. “It was Cosette on the phone, and there will be a car here in an hour, so I'm going to go and wake everyone up. The kettle has just boiled.” 

He added the last bit as an afterthought, then pushed past Grantaire, though at least gently, and Grantaire stared dumbly at his retreating back. It was only after he'd had two coffees and three tablets of paracetamol that embarrassment hit and he started berating himself for making a fool of himself in front of the most handsome man he'd ever met. 

He wished he could have done it with literally any other person in the house. Thinking about it, though, he probably already did – it was just that everyone else was too drunk to judge him for it, and too busy embarrassing themselves just as much. He sighed and downed the third mug of coffee before filling up the kettle for the next person in serious need of it. He left the tablets on the side as a good will gesture, then began walking upstairs to decide what the fuck to wear.

Entering the room, he sighed. Courfeyrac seemed to have gotten halfway out of bed and collapsed again, slumped against the bedside table with his head resting on the bed and the rest of his body dangled off. Jehan was nowhere to be found, so that was a plus. He was probably on the toilet, Grantaire guessed. In any case, it was one less person he'd have to wake up. Marius was still wrapped up in his cocoon, but he had turned round so his face was now uncovered. He had a bright grin on his face while sleeping, which was quite creepy, Grantaire thought, but Courfeyrac would probably think it was cute. He rolled his eyes, and decided Courfeyrac was the only one who could take a rude wake up call. Then he could wake Marius up as gently as he liked. 

He remembered the glass of water he'd had the foresight to bring up to bed with him last night, though he had forgotten about it in the rush of trying to answer the phone, and he smirked as he picked it up and marched over to Courfeyrac.

He pulled the glass back and splashed it all on Courfeyrac's faced with a quick flick of his wrist. Courfeyrac gasped, opening his eyes straightaway.

“You absolute bastard,” Courfeyrac gasped indignantly. “I was fucking awake, you fuck!”

Grantaire snorted, amused, but Courfeyrac didn’t seem to see the funny side. He only glared back at him, and then started shaking his head vigorously in Grantaire's direction like a dog, in the vague hope that some drops of water would land on him. Grantaire smiled widely, so wide he was practically baring his teeth, making Courfeyrac groan.

With some pity, Grantaire dug around in his bottom drawer and found a towel, handing it to him as well as the extra pack of paracetamol he brought with him. He fetched a glass of water for him from their en suite bathroom so he could moderate his hangover. He didn't apologise, but Courfeyrac mumbled that he forgave him anyway.

As soon as he was forgiven, Grantaire gestured to Marius. “You'll have to wake him up,” he started, “I feel too mean doing it to him. He's like a puppy or something.”

Courfeyrac nodded, and as Grantaire rifled for a suit that would make some sort of good impression on Javert without him feeling like someone he wasn't, Courfeyrac crept over to Marius and started gently rolling him out of the covers. As Marius let out a low whine, dropping the creepy grin in favour of a pathetic pout that Courfeyrac cooed at, Grantaire picked the same dinner jacket he wore yesterday, and then thought that he may as well wear the same trousers. They were perfectly fine – his mother's insistence upon ironing them twice before packing them had obviously paid off, as there was not a crease to be seen. He did, however, pick out a new shirt and some new underwear. 

He pondered for a minute whether to locate a bathroom and get changed in there, but he quickly decided against it, thinking it would be unfair to keep people out of a shared bathroom just to throw some clothes on. He didn't have much modesty anyway. At least he thought he hadn't, until that unexpected bout of it earlier when confronted with Enjolras in his sleepy hungover state. He didn't feel too embarrassed by that any more though, shrugging it off. It was clear that he was tired. He could make a better impression on the golden god later.

Jehan came back into the room at the exact moment Grantaire dropped his pyjama bottoms, and actually giggled at the sight of Grantaire's bare ass. This, of course, drew Courfeyrac's attention. 

“Now that is something I could get on board with being woken up to!” Courfeyrac yelled. Grantaire stuck two fingers up at him and, when Courfeyrac didn’t stop staring, he turned his head round to stick his tongue out at him. 

He noticed that Marius was out of bed now, and wincing at the volume of Courfeyrac's voice as he stared dismally at his face in the mirror.

“Courfeyrac, do you have any concealer?” he said miserably, looking at the shadows beneath his eyes. Courfeyrac's eyes lit up with glee, and Grantaire felt marginally sorry for the boy. He'd brought it on himself though.

“You seriously wear make-”

Courfeyrac's excited question was cut off by Jehan.

“Ooh one minute, Marius, I'm sure I have some somewhere,” He began rummaging in his bag, and for a second Courfeyrac looked nonplussed. He glanced sideways at Grantaire, who had just pulled his trousers on and was currently buttoning his shirt, obviously expecting him to laugh at the other two with him. Grantaire just schooled his face into a serious expression.

“What, Courfeyrac? Do you not wear it?” He made an effort to look genuinely confused, and Courfeyrac studied his face for a moment before biting his lip.

“Uh, no?” He glanced between them. “Maybe I should...” He walked over to the mirror to study his face, then shoved Marius (who had accepted Jehan's stick of concealer with a thank you that edged on worship) aside a little. Courfeyrac studied the bags under his own as he watched Marius apply the concealer.

“Do me?” he begged Marius, who looked at him apologetically. 

“I would, but I can hardly do it for myself.” He shakily rubbed the line under his eye. “I need to get dressed and stuff too.”

Jehan skipped over. “I'll do you, Courfeyrac,” He said with a hint of a smile, and Courfeyrac really must have been desperate, since his grin wasn't tainted with lewd joy from the innuendo, just gratitude.

Marius passed the stick of concealer back to Jehan who ushered Courfeyrac into a sitting position on his own bed, before Marius peered so closely into his wardrobe that he was almost in Narnia.

Grantaire had been watching the scene in amusement, laughing at their girlishness, but then he remembered the good-looking one, Enjolras, and how much he needed to make a good impression. With no further encouragement needed, Grantaire hurried over to the mirror encased in his wardrobe. He had darker circles than the rest, he noted. After a minute more of hesitation as he put on his tie, he finally cracked.

“Jehan,” he smiled. “Me next?”

~~*~~

 

Pushing past Courfeyrac, Grantaire clambered into the limousine waiting outside. Musichetta and Eponine already took up two of the three seats on the row across from him, being the only other two ready to leave, which defied nearly every stereotypical comment Grantaire had ever heard about women. Courfeyrac hurried back in to fetch Marius and Jehan, who were both freaking out slightly and were convinced they had both convinced themselves that they had forgotten something vital. 

Grantaire could swear Marius had combed his hair at least forty two times in the short period of time Grantaire had been getting ready in the room, and Jehan had spent around fifteen minutes agonizing over which tie would make a better first impression, the one with the purple flowers or the one with the blue diamonds (incidentally, he’d finally chosen the one with purple flowers.) 

As he waited for Courfeyrac, Marius and Jehan, Grantaire watched the door intently and stared in unabashed wonder as the golden haired one from earlier – Enjolras – sauntered out of the house, fully dressed. He wore a fitted suit much like Grantaire’s, but he had a skinny black tie on as well as a small red pocket square. The suit accentuated the shape of his body perfectly, and when he turned to smile at Combeferre, Grantaire actually gulped. He looked incredible, especially when he smiled. 

Grantaire shook his head, trying to force himself to not think the mushy sorts of thoughts that were fighting to the forefront of his mind, likening Enjolras to an angel or a God, and dragged his eyes away, instead choosing to tune in to the girls’ conversation.

“Who’s the dreamboat walking up the path?” Musichetta laughed, winking at Grantaire when she noticed him listening, his starstruck expression obviously still in place. “It looks like he has an admirer, whoever he is.”

Eponine smirked at Grantaire, and both girls glanced at each other with excited expressions. Grantaire felt a sense of dread when they leant forward in their seats, closer to Grantaire.

“Don’t tell Courfeyrac, please,” He begged pathetically. 

Eponine rested an unexpectedly gentle hand on his shoulder, and Musichetta gave him a kind smile. “We’re not that horrible, Grantaire,” Eponine laughed. “You do like him, though, right? The mystery man?”

“The babe with the blonde hair?” Musichetta teased.

“The hottie with the red napkin thing?”

“His name is Enjolras,” Grantaire murmured to correct them, and then immediately cursed himself for doing so when Musichetta and Eponine all but squealed and started to demand details from him. He obliged quickly, because though Eponine had claimed she wasn’t ‘that horrible,’ he wasn’t willing to underestimate her. As he spoke, he kept a careful eye on the doorway in case Courfeyrac, or, heaven forbid, Enjolras, was approaching their car. Enjolras didn’t even glance in their direction though, just stepped into the car in front with Combeferre, chatting away happily. 

Grantaire felt a sharp stab of jealousy toward Combeferre and found himself glaring at his back. The jealousy was probably what influenced his storytelling of the meeting with Enjolras, as he stated that he had seen Enjolras topless this morning with a proud grin, and a certain feeling of smugness that he’d seen it and Combeferre hadn’t. Hopefully hadn’t, anyway.

The incessant questions about how exactly Enjolras’s bare chest looked were thankfully put to an end when the car door opened, and Marius timidly poked his head in. Grantaire bit back a laugh as Marius was propelled forward by an impatient shove from Courfeyrac.

“They’re just girls, Marius. They’re not going to eat you.” When Marius literally fell into the seat next to Eponine, blush dusting his cheeks, Courfeyrac came into view and he sent Marius a lewd grin. “Well, not unless you want them – Ow!”

Courfeyrac turned round to glare at Jehan, presumably, who had probably just hit him, before climbing into the car to take the seat next to Grantaire with a huff. Grantaire sent him a look that clearly said ‘you deserved it,’ and Eponine laughed from where she was sat directly across from Courfeyrac. It put her in a good position to kick his ankles throughout the journey, simply to annoy him. When Marius joined in the game, Courfeyrac looked truly betrayed, and sent them both a pathetic look.

“I thought we were friends,” he pouted, and Marius looked incredibly guilty, leaning forward in his seat and apologising earnestly. This made Eponine (who had started warming to Marius) roll her eyes and turn away from him, 'accidentally' knocking him in the ribs with her elbow as she did so.

The car journey was comfortable enough, the air quickly grew thick with tension. There was a current of fear running through all their veins, though Grantaire could honestly say there was definitely some excitement there too. It would be really interesting to see how everyone changed when they were on the tasks, and especially when they were in the boardroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are very very very welcome here ~~(also kudos~~ )  
> Thank you for reading the fic so far, and for leaving kudos/commenting!  
> As always, big love to [izzie](archiveofourown.org/users/Orestes) for being the best human being in the world!!!


	4. Chapter 4

They were at the Louvre, stood side by side in a line as they waited for Javert to appear. More specifically, they were in an ornate dining room in Napoleon III's apartments, in the Richelieu Wing. The amount of gold adorning every available surface was astounding, and Grantaire couldn’t stop himself from craning his neck around so he could appreciate the elaborate artwork hanging off the walls better. Despite his best efforts to look nonchalant about it, he couldn’t help admiring the subtle use of colour, which was completely at odds with the twenty or so brash red and gold chairs that surrounded the long table in the middle. 

For Javert and all the other contestants in the room, this was probably a glorified boardroom rather than the historical representation of art through time that it should be taken as. 

Grantaire didn't even bother speculating what task was lay ahead of them – it was a known fact that the starting location had absolutely nothing at all to do with any of the tasks. It was just a way for Javert to show off his money that would enable him to enter dramatically. Marius, however, was muttering to Jehan worriedly about what the task must have in store, worrying that they would have to cook a meal for Javert and his fellow businessmen. Enjolras, who was stood in between Marius and Combeferre and looking more and more annoyed by the minute, let out a huff of frustration and glared at Marius. 

“I don't think that's what the show is about, Marius,” Musichetta said softly, and Marius relaxed a little. Courfeyrac, who stood at least three people away from Marius, faux-whispered to Eponine that “It's The Apprentice, not Masterchef,” making her snort in a highly undignified manner.

She had to compose herself quickly, setting her face into a neutral expression as soon as she was calm enough to do so, while Marius blushed and leant forward, in front of Enjolras, to make a childish face at Courfeyrac. Enjolras looked utterly at a loss at their lack of decorum, and he shot a helpless look in Combeferre’s direction. 

Combeferre smiled back in amusement, much more tolerant of the group's antics than Enjolras was since he had spent the night with them. Enjolras smiled back at Combeferre uncertainly, as if to ask whether Combeferre actually liked these people, and Grantaire felt the stab of jealousy once more. He could barely restrain himself from glaring at Combeferre, who was stood in the gap next to him, even more viciously than before.

Grantaire was trying to maintain his facade of disinterest, but he twitched his hands nervously every so often, a tic he'd developed through years of drinking and chain smoking, and, more recently, the long and drawn out process of actually quitting smoking. Combeferre was the only one who seemed to notice, and he sent him a kind smile and mouthed a quick “You alright?” at Grantaire.

His genuine concern made Grantaire feel a little guilty about his jealousy as he nodded affirmatively. Combeferre nodded then, subtly so no one else would notice, grasped Grantaire’s shoulder softly for a second amiably, and then let his hand fall. Inexplicably, Grantaire felt comforted, and the tension he didn't realise he had in his upper back suddenly fell away. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and sent Combeferre a grateful smile.

When the intricately decorated, heavy gold door began to open opposite them, even Courfeyrac stood up straighter, and they all looked attentively at the entrance. Two people emerged, heads bent together as they talked animatedly about something or other, and the door shut behind them. Grantaire immediately identified them as Javert's aides, Valjean and Fantine.

Their job was to help Lord Javert by each watching over one of the teams each. They had to take notes on their efforts and, more importantly, their mistakes and flaws, and then present them to Javert when he needed to make a decision about who to fire. They were there to help him in that decision too, but ultimately, Javert had the last word. 

Jean Valjean was the older of the two, He had kind eyes and a warm smile, and Grantaire would estimate that he was around forty-five. From what Grantaire had seen of the previous series, Valjean was always there with a helpful comment if he felt someone was about to make a terrible mistake, though if they chose to ignore him anyway, he blamed them fully for the consequences. As nice as he was, he had no qualms about telling Javert what the contestants had done wrong. 

Fantine was much younger. She had long dark hair, and a sharp smile. Like Valjean, she was kind in her own way, but she would more usually make witty comments about the stupid things the contestants were doing to the cameras when she was pulled aside, barely stopping herself from rolling her eyes. 

Neither of them would hesitate to put forward a suggestion of who should be fired, but, on the other hand, they would defend an innocent person with an unrivalled determination until Javert would either grudgingly concede the person wasn't as terrible as he was making out, or he would fire the person out of spite. Whenever he did the latter, Javert would look between them both smugly, like he needed to remind them that it was _his_ show, and he’d do as he damn well pleased on it. 

All in all, the two were kind enough, and probably too kind for Javert's liking, but the public adored them, so it was in the best interests of the show to keep them on. They separated shortly after they arrived in the room, taking their positions on either side of the double doors in the middle, to ensure Javert could make a grand entrance from behind them. 

From watching the previous series, Grantaire knew that the aides found this funny – Valjean had lightly teased Lord Javert about it once on the aftershow, but the sarcasm in his tone had sailed right over the millionaire’s head. He thought Valjean was genuinely complimenting him when he said “Javert always leaves an impression. His face isn’t a face that anyone would forget.” After that he had wore an odd expression mixed between confusion, anger and pride for the next half an hour, even when he was letting the rest of the panel argue between themselves.

The tension in the room was palpable for the first minute, but when Javert still hadn't shown up by the time Grantaire had mentally counted to six hundred and three, everyone started to relax a little. Even Valjean and Fantine were looking over their shoulders with amused glances. 

The camera men behind them had began talking in whispers, the only thing reminding the contestants that they were actually there – it seemed they were very adept at blending into the background, which made the experience still feel very real. It was only Courfeyrac, so far, that had paid them much attention, trying to engage them into conversation when he had first walked in. Interestingly, the camera men were apparently trained in the same way as the Queen's guards at Buckingham Palace were. They simply froze up while Courfeyrac continually attempted to distracting them. After a while, he had given up and retreated dismally, with a shrug and a pointed “Fine, it's not like I care anyway,” before going to stand next to Eponine and Bahorel.

Suddenly, one of the sound technicians hissed something unintelligible to the cameramen, who all shut up immediately and frantically checked their cameras were rolling, positioning them one last time just to be sure. It was at this moment that Valjean and Fantine stood up straighter, crossing their arms behind their backs smartly. 

Grantaire didn't realise that everyone else had copied their example until he felt Valjean's eyes on him. He watched as the older man looked pointedly at Grantaire's arms, and back at his own, and finally realised what the signal meant, and crossed his arms behind his back while looking at Valjean gratefully. Valjean smiled at him before turning his head away to scan the other contestants, as Fantine was doing. If Grantaire hadn't watched the show so many times and didn’t know any better, he would have said they were picking out their favourites.

When everything had fallen absolutely silent for precisely thirty seconds, the double doors flew open – a hard feat since they both looked extraordinarily heavy and laden with gold and each around ten centimetres thick – and then there he was, stood in a harshly cut dark blue suit and with a stiff posture, his jaw tight as he stormed into the room. He had a commanding air about him, and when his eyes focused on each individual, they felt like they were being deeply examined in just one glance. All Grantaire could think, though, was how much smaller Lord Javert looked in real life.

When he stopped walking, taking his place in between Fantine and Valjean, but a few paces ahead of them, as if to assert his authority, the candidates dutifully chorused: “Good morning, Lord Javert,” as they had been instructed to by a pretty, blonde haired girl before they had entered the room.

She had walked in with a kind smile and a hurried step as soon as they arrived, welcoming them into the competition distractedly. She kept running her hands through her hair in a frazzled manner, which suggested to Grantaire that she had a lot of work to do today.

The contestants had only been standing there for a few minutes and most of themwere already bored. She was a welcome distraction for most, though Marius seemed more enraptured by her than all of the others combined. He hadn't stopped gaping at her since she entered, looking at her as if he had seen some sort of angel. At least that was what he whispered to Jehan later on when she had disappeared from the room for a minute, and Jehan had “Awwwww-ed” very loudly.

This caught Courfeyrac's attention, and, being Courfeyrac, he promised that he would tell her how lame Marius was the next time that she appeared. She had only revealed her name as she had started to walk away, when Courfeyrac tried to flirt with her. “My name's Courfeyrac, by the way. Just so you know what to scream later.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes, though in good humour. 

“Mine's Cosette. And if you say that when Fantine or Valjean are around, you're probably dead.”

She gestured towards the room where Valjean, Fantine and Javert were supposed to be waiting and looked at Marius with amusement who was beside him, but for a few seconds she was caught in a staring battle with him, she looking just as wonderstruck as he did. 

They both simply smiled breathlessly at each other for at least two minutes, and they only seemed to realise it when Eponine muttered “For God's sake,” causing Cosette to laugh and tear her eyes away from him, albeit reluctantly. Though she still looked rather flustered, she managed to get a hold of herself long before Marius did (not that Grantaire expected any less of her, or, for that matter, any better of Marius), and smiled brilliantly at them, focusing particularly on Marius before saying her goodbyes and leaving the room quickly, evidently remembering her workload as she rushed away. 

Lord Javert cleared his throat, snapping Grantaire back to reality.

“Good morning contestants,” Javert narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised each contestants face thoroughly. “Welcome to the competition. As I’m sure you know, you are competing for the opportunity of your lives in this show.These will be a gruelling few weeks for all of you, and I sincerely hope that you all realise the seriousness of this process. This will be the longest job interview you will ever take part in, and the most difficult. I built myself up from nothing, and I expect all of you to prove to me that you can do the same. If you fail, you will be fired.”

He paused, Grantaire suspected for dramatic effect, before he began to split them into teams. He must have done a lot of research, Grantaire thought, as he identified each candidate with ease.

“If call your name, go to the right hand side of the room.”

He made it seem as if he was only just deciding the teams, but although his acting was good, it was obvious the teams had already been picked – it was clearly done for the television factor. Or maybe, he thought, he was just being cynical. 

He was partially lost in thought even when his own name was called, causing him to start, though he made efforts to try and cover it up so that it was (hopefully) almost imperceptible. He walked quickly over to the right hand side of the room, where Eponine was waiting on her own with a small, relieved smile on her face. Within a few minutes, Combeferre and Bahorel were stood with them, Bahorel clapping Grantaire on the back when he reached him, and Combeferre took his place next to Eponine with a wide, genuine smile. 

When Bossuet was selected to work with them, Grantaire remembered his announcement that he was 'the unluckiest man on Earth,' and only just kept himself from groaning. He didn’t usually believe in that sort of superstitious stuff, but he had witnessed at least twelve Bossuet-related accidents last night that made him question himself. Courfeyrac obviously did believe in luck, though, as Grantaire had noticed him saluting to a lone magpie on the way over, and he was prepared to bet Marius would take those sorts of things seriously too.

Bossuet stood next to Bahorel, who turned his head away from Javert to grin at him. 

When the last name was called, Grantaire gulped and immediately felt the urge to untangle his arms from behind his back in order to sort his suit out or to tame his hair, but kept them firmly locked in place, keeping his mouth shut tightly lest he let out an excited squeal because he knew that was something he would never, ever live down. 

Eponine slyly edged closer to him and leant into his side a fraction with a smirk on her face, a clear substitute for a dig in the ribs. Grantaire preferred this method of communication a lot, and wondered for a second if he could find a way to permanently restrict Eponine's arm movements. He stopped with that train of thought when he realised that the only sure-fire way to do so would be to cut her arm off, and instead looked at their new addition to the team. 

_Enjolras._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly thank you so much to everyone who has commented/left kudos/actually read the fic so far, it makes me very happy to know that you are enjoying it! :-)  
> Always a shoutout to [izzie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Orestes/pseuds/Orestes) for being the best ever! p.s you should totally read her [student/teacher fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/756110/chapters/1413339) it's probably one of my fave fics out there!!!  
> Thank you again for reading the fic so far, and comments/kudos are always appreciated <3  
> p.s if you have any questions about the apprentice don't hesitate to ask me :-)


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